


Skeletons in the Earth

by kayliemalinza



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Death, Gen, Gore, Implied Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-04
Updated: 2005-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of secrets buried in the grounds at Malfoy Manor. AU from GoF (as it was written in 2005;) presumes that Draco and various other characters survive the war.</p><p>Teaser: <br/>The mass graves were a surprise, though not as much as Draco would have liked. The Ministry came to inspect the grounds after the war, cradling ice in their eyes and dripping oil from their tongues because, though he was a traitor and a coward, he'd been on their side in the end. Once it became clear which side was winning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skeletons in the Earth

Malfoy Mansion came with more than its share of skeletons; Draco had gotten used to that. He'd always known about the cemetery beneath the shadow of the West Wing, reaching to the sparsest tendrils of the forest. He'd played there as a child, climbing upon the granite statues of his ancestors and tracing the deep-carved letters of their names, as cold and fragile as their bones.

The mass graves were a surprise, though not as much as he would have liked. The Ministry came to inspect the grounds after the war, cradling ice in their eyes and dripping oil from their tongues because, though he was a traitor and a coward, he'd been on their side in the end. Once it became clear which side was winning.

When the first chalky bone had emerged between the blades of grass, Draco had been shocked. The inspectors showed him the bone- a finger and part of a hand, still crooked in terror, as if beckoning to them from the beyond. Draco had shaken his head. "My father never told me anything," he said. "He kept all of his activities very secret."

"Even from you?" said the official, stroking his mustache thoughtfully.

Draco's eyes turned as cold as the granite of his ancestor's graves. "Especially from me," he said, daring the fool to ask why, daring him to suggest that perhaps Lucius knew Draco would turn, that he looked at his son every day and saw the weakness in his chin and in his spine, that he made plans and kept secrets because he looked and every day, every damn day predicted that Draco would fail him.

The inspectors asked no questions after that. Draco watched them carry out their work, the surprise dwindling away until all that was left was a catalog of his father's sins. Countless Muggle skeletons, twisted and burned and showing deep gashes in the bone where Lucius had plied his ceremonial knife. The skulls of wizards who had gone missing during the first Years of Terror, and had never been accounted for. The bloodied boots and clothes of two Aurors that had been captured weeks before the War's end, nothing else left but ashes. Strands of hair, soft and fine; teeth so small and perfect that they must have been children's. No older than six; as young as two.

And Dark creatures. Dozens of them, mostly scattered around the circle of ground where grass would not grow, where countless fires had been lit and too much blood had been spilled. The Ministry officials barely studied each corpse before deciding its use:

A werewolf, bled for a dark spell. See the nick on its vertebrae? That's where they cut the throat.

Unknown creature. Skinned completely, small scrapes at the joints and protruding bones. A magical cloak, maybe. They dress up in it for rituals.

Graphorn. Horn hacked off. Must have been in a hurry.

More werewolves. Lots of werewolves.

A vampire— teeth torn out, fingers carefully disjointed. Don't know why they did that.

A unicorn, by gods, a unicorn. Keeping You-Know-Who alive. Such a beautiful, innocent creature. Glad You-Know-Who is dead, right Earl? That's right. It's an awful thing, to kill a unicorn.

Still more werewolves.

Somebody got the idea to bring in Remus Lupin, ostensibly because Dark Creatures were his expertise, but mostly because he knew the lands very well—though he could never look anyone in the eye when he said that. He'd been a prisoner here very briefly, during Voldemort's first rising and just after Draco had been born: a covert mission gone awry, James getting away in a flash of cloak and Sirius transforming, bounding through the underbrush. Remus caught in the brambles, surrounded by masks and wands— _Luminos!_ Lucius' blonde hair, the pregnant Moon gleaming in the silver of his rings.... 

_This is the one, isn't it, Severus?_ The wavering of a wand, black eyes behind the mask, the Moon rising higher and the itch beginning beneath his skin.... _Take him alive. Severus, this may be the solution to our little problem_.

Released suddenly the day after, weak and shaking, can't remember anything, stumbling through the forest back to London but every fiber in his being tells him to _turn back turn back return to the pack_. The next full Moon, he breaks away from James and Sirius and heads to the south, back to Wiltshire and the Mansion and the piece of his soul that he left there. Even years later, he ends up there sometimes. Scratching at the stone. Howling at the Moon.

Remus spoke quietly and quickly with the inspectors, treading gently through the ravaged land of Draco's back yard, climbing into the sodden trenches to examine the bones poking gently through the earth. Draco couldn't stand to be around him. He had laughed when Lupin left Hogwarts years before, laughed because he was thrust out into the cold like all Dark Creatures should be. Now, Draco can't travel to Diagon Alley without the Ministry asking him "just a few routine questions", without shopkeepers hiding the best merchandise, without the occasional witch giving him a kind, pitying nod, thinking he'd done the right thing after all. Not of the Dark, was Draco. Not of the Light, either.

Remus Lupin's eyes held far too much understanding.

Draco retreated to the house, where more Ministry inspectors went over every nook and cranny with fine-toothed combs, driving the house-elves crazy. Severus Snape was there, cataloging the heirlooms, exposing the secret passages, droning on in his low, unctuous voice what had happened in each room and when; what Voldemort said, what Lucius did, how every poor soul died. The inspectors didn't like him but they respected him because Snape had been spying from the beginning, playing both sides whereas Draco had never been on any side at all.

They started on the highest floors and worked their way down, because Snape was methodical and everything must be done precisely. They finished with Draco's room as quickly as possible, and then left him to his tower. He followed them, however, interested as to exactly how much had happened in his home while he had been at Hogwarts, or had slept away the stagnant summer nights beneath an open window. Why had he never heard the screams? he wondered. Perhaps Lucius had never allowed them. He had been very sensitive to loud noises, Draco remembered. The Mansion was always hushed.

Except— except— stagnant summer nights— endless grieving song, coming from just beyond the cemetery, further from the forest than any sane wolf would ever dare— as clear and tragic as the Moon....

Draco followed his Potions Master through his childhood home, learning new dark uses for every family heirloom and marveling at just how often Voldemort had taken tea in the parlor with his mother. The entire house had nearly been searched, when Snape paused in front of an empty wall. A spasm of hesitation, then Snape slid his hand behind a torch and stepped back as the wall opened into a room that Draco had never seen before. They followed in on the whisper of his robes, Draco and the Ministry official, only one since that was all Snape could stand.

Severus Snape was imbedded in every corner of the room. A single bare cot; shelves full of bottles and herbs, a worktable stretching from wall to wall.

"I worked here often, during the First Years," murmured Snape, striding to the table as if he'd left the brew there to simmer, some potion ripening after twenty years. "Voldemort often wanted.... Veritaserum, Draught of the Living Death... potions not yet invented, a special agony for every victim. Each requiring special components."

The official looked up. "So the skeletons—"

Snape nodded. "For the best potions, use the freshest ingredients possible." He went on, listing the numerous poisons he had created, the creatures used to make them. Werewolves, Draco learned, had many uses. The Ministry fool scribbled as quickly as he could, too inured now to raise an eyebrow at talk of torture.

Draco wandered about the room, trailing a hand along the dripping walls, examining the jars upon the shelves to recall half-forgotten Potions lessons, half-remembered Herbology. He edged around the cot, allowing himself a smirk at the inky-black strands of hair still left on the linen after all these years.

 _Snape was sleeping here before I was born_ , Draco thought, recalling early images of a dark spectre at the dinner table. When he was very small, he had thought that Severus was a ghost. He gently touched the strands of hair, thinking immediately of a dozen harmful spells that could be cast with a single hair from the victim. The carelessness was shocking and Draco wondered when, exactly, Snape had gotten paranoid. _Probably about the time he became a spy_ , thought Draco, then cocked his head to the side. Something was lying under the bed, flopped against the leg—far too untidy for Snape of young or old. He picked it up carefully, mouth slowly falling open.

"What is that?" said Snape sharply. Draco turned, holding out the doll. The head and hands were made of ceramic, spiderwebbed with fine cracks. The hair was a skein of gleaming gold silk thread.

"It was down there," said Draco. "Under the bed."

Snape came upon him in two quick steps and snatched it away, the pale blue dress drifting between his yellow fingers. His eyes glistened wildly, so many traces of expression compressed in the twist of his lips, the arch of his eyebrow. Snape looked to the official.

"Move," he said. "Over there. Out of the way."

The official didn't move, gesturing at the delicate object. "What is that, there? Is that a Dark artifact?"

"It's a child's doll," he snapped, tossing it away. "Decide for yourself whether it's dark, only move out of my way!"

The official stepped away, hopping further back when Snape crouched at his feet, his robes swirling like the wings of an angry raven. He pried his crooked fingers between the cracks of stone, knuckles paling as he wrenched the floor away.

"What's _that!_ " said the official, jumping as far into the corner as he could go.

Snape did not answer. Draco peered into the dark cubby beneath the floor, shuddering violently. A glimpse of white against the soil, wisps of blonde hair, pale icy skin....

"That," said Snape, "Is the child to whom that doll belongs."

Draco stared at the small creature, a beautiful thing that had once been a child, curled into herself, fingertips grazing the walls of her tomb. He tried to speak, but his voice slid noiselessly from his teeth, a spirit escaping. He licked his lips and tried again.

"What—Who is that?" he asked.

Snape dipped his hand into the grave, his shoulderblades straining sharply against the black of his robe. With the voice he used to speak of potions, of detention, of torture he said, "She is the first child of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy."

"What?" said Draco and the official at the same time.

"There were no records of-"

"My father never mentioned-"

Snape cut off their questions with a shake of his head. "As she neared seven years of age, it became apparent that her magical power was negligible. A squib; unsuitable as an heir. Or so Lucius said. But she was such a bright and beautiful child, very curious. She used to watch me work, and ask— If she had grown, she would have been...." His voice folded into silence; he trailed a fingertip along the shoulder of the girl, skin as soft and downy as the day she died. Cold as the granite of her ancestor's graves. "When it was determined that you were magically gifted, Draco, Lucius decided that she should serve another purpose. Research, potions, and the like.... Soon he ordered her killed, but I could not let her rot, so I devised a preservative...." He briefly closed his eyes, hands gently gripping her flesh. The tiny corpse shifted, and Draco could see the family birthmark along the line of her back: a graceful, wine-colored mark, like the stroke of a calligrapher's quill. There was something else there, another blemish on her porcelain skin: a small silver scar, just above her hipbone.

Snape's fingers drifted over the scar, and he froze.

"I had almost forgotten...." He snapped his head up. "Go fetch Remus Lupin," he said to the official.

"Wot?"

"Go fetch him! He is working outside at this moment. Hurry!"

The inspector fled, dropping his parchment to curl against the floor. Snape stood, moving Draco away from the hole.

"We must go," he said. "Leave the room."

"But-" said Draco. "That's my- She was-"

"It will all be explained," said Snape, ushering Draco out of the room.

The inspector must have met Lupin coming in; they rounded the corner as soon as Draco and Snape stepped outside.

"Snape," said Lupin. "What is this—"

Snape said nothing; Lupin glanced at the waiting door, saw the stone thrown carelessly away, the dark hole, the pale soul within.... Memory all at once, falling to the floor, crawling over, whimpers leaking from his jaw, can't breathe, muscles shifting beneath skin, an itch beneath the skin, vision speckled black and the child in his arms, lifted from the grave, corn-silk hair flowing weightlessly against his skin, cold and cold and dead and gone his child lost forever, his only kin....

Snape's hands were sharp against Draco's shoulders. Draco tried to shrug him off, craning his head to see through the door, but Snape gripped him more tightly and dragged him down the hallway. Draco struggled, feet scraping over the expensive parquet and the threshold of the door and then the crisp, blood-nourished grass of a field of bones.

All the Ministry officials looked up, squinting at the sun as a howl echoed from the house, long and full of grief.


End file.
